“Never.”
Sharp and to the point, that one word conveyed many things. Confusing things. It spoke of respect and trust, something Damian never associated with the Marquis of Blackbeck.
The marquis rose gracefully from the chair and moved to the many decanters lining the side table. He did not ask if Damian cared for a drink but poured two glasses of port, regardless. “A rare vintage from Oporto,” he said, offering Damian the dainty crystal flute. “Dated the year you were born. A fitting toast considering you’ve yet to bombard me with the usual string of obscenities.”
The marquis dropped into the sofa opposite and raised his glass in salute. “To stubborn sons.”
“To fathers who shirk responsibility,” Damian countered, raising his glass.
The marquis smirked. “And to men who believe gossip without taking the time to discover the facts.”
They drank in silence while Damian resisted the urge to ask his father what he meant.
“Now,” the marquis began after savouring and swallowing a mouthful of expensive port. “I doubt you came to tell me you plan to become master of Parklands and take a wife.”
“A wife?” Damian should scoff at the notion. But an image of Scarlett entered his mind, and the thought didn’t seem as repulsive. “If I ever marry, it will be for love.”
“Such sentiment is commendable, although one cannot always guarantee one’s affections are returned.”
Suspecting the conversation would turn to Damian’s mother, he chose to ask the question plaguing his mind since leaving Mr Flannery. “What do you know of a gentleman by the name of Christopher Rathbone? While I am aware of Lady Rathbone and the current heir, I presume he is a relation.”
The marquis’ inquisitive gaze drifted over Damian’s face before straying to his injured arm. “Does this have something to do with the reason you stumbled like a drunken sot through Vauxhall? If you needed my assistance, you had only to ask.”
Damian tried to gauge what his father knew of the shooting, but the lord gave nothing away. “I am assisting Lady Steele in a personal matter. As you’re a man with an extensive knowledge of the ton, I merely wish to know if Christopher Rathbone is related to the Rathbones who reside in Portland Place.”
“You enjoy the widow’s company?”
“Immensely.” There was little point lying, though Damian prayed his father kept any derogatory comments to himself.
“Christopher Rathbone was Lady Rathbone’s youngest son. Uncle to the present Lord Rathbone. A reckless fool to most.”
“Was? You mean the man is dead?”
The marquis inclined his head. “He left England some twenty years ago, when you were but a boy, and never returned. I’m told he died in abject poverty in a dingy apartment in Paris. Of course, Lady Rathbone tells a different story, as do most women overly concerned with appearances.”
For once, Damian ignored the veiled swipe at his mother. “Different? How so?”
The weak yet knowing expression on the marquis’ face spoke of a man well-versed in people’s need to manipulate the truth. “To the ton reputation is everything. Consequently, the man was a tortured poet, gifted with words yet plagued by the tragic death of his wife and young child. In reality, Christopher Rathbone was a spoilt prig. Jealousy for his older brother led to crippling debts.”
“Then he must have maintained control of a business. He used cargo from a shipment to repay one particular debt.”
The marquis’ eyes glinted with tepid amusement. “Undoubtedly another fictional story. The man was nowhere near as astute as you when it comes to business acumen.”
There was a hint of pride in the marquis’ tone that proved unsettling. Damian was unaware of his father’s interest in his business dealings. During the minimal time spent in the lord’s company, the only conversation amounted to verbal sparring.
“A true story in this case. I have written proof.”
He would not produce the receipt for that would mean divulging details of Scarlett’s unconventional background. And in truth, he did not trust the marquis not to use the information for his own end.
“Then I highly doubt he obtained the cargo by honest means.”
Silence ensued while the marquis swirled the port in the glass and took another delicate sip.
“When you spoke of Christopher Rathbone’s family, you mentioned a young child. So his wife did not die in childbirth?” Damian wasn’t sure why the question seemed important. Equally, he was aware that he did not feel the same anger towards his father when playing the role of inquisitive enquiry agent.
Was that the reason for his improved mood?
Or was it that his heart sang with a different emotion and there was no room left for hatred?